


Not If I Kill You First

by startrekto221B



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Assassin John, Assassins & Hitmen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-04
Updated: 2015-02-19
Packaged: 2018-03-05 10:00:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 3,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3115910
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/startrekto221B/pseuds/startrekto221B
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Silent Death is famous in the underworld for killing his victims even before they have the chance to make a sound. Though he doesn't generally do long-term undercover jobs, preferring quick hits, he agrees to kill one Sherlock Holmes for the biggest windfall of his career--ten million dollars. But there's more than money at stake when one agrees to do a job for James Moriarty. He may be getting a bit too attached to the life of his newly constructed alter ego 'John Watson'. And if 'John' doesn't take his shot, and Sherlock finds out his secret, he might just kill him first.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The Silent Death never met his clients in person. Usually he waited for a phone call. Verified their credentials. Got the job done and waited for the appropriate transfer of cash into his accounts. Then they went their separate ways. That was all there was too it. No personal interaction required. It was one of the many perks of being an assassin, no need to weasel one’s way up the social ladder, be a ‘team player’, all it really required was firearms and wits. Which The Silent Death had plenty of.

Only this time the phone call had come on a Sunday morning (odd, since these people always had the tendency to phone at night, The Silent Death suspected they felt far more dark and dangerous that way), and the man on the other end had requested ‘face-to-face’, and was willing to pay well for it. What the hell, The Silent Death had thought, a half hour at the local café was easily worth a quarter million dollars.

He was sitting at a booth in the back, and had recently purchased a vanilla latte and a bagel. The client was running two minutes late for their rendez-vous, which was shocking, the Silent Death thought, considering each minute was worth around eighty-three hundred dollars. In the meanwhile he went through his regular motions in his head. Marking exits. There were two. Hidden camera locations. Five. Possible threats in the immediate vicinity. Currently zero. Possible undercover law enforcement. Three meters. Out of earshot. One. Concealed weapon. Yes. Though The Silent Death was sure he could neutralize him in seconds if necessary.    

“Apologies for my lateness,” a gruff man in a thick coat sat down across from him, “Mr.—“

“Smith,” The Silent Death said quickly, the man was obviously American and would be annoyed by the cliché, “No need to be sorry. Your money not mine.”

“We have a job we’d like you to do,”

“Clearly. Though I’d prefer you’d drop the pleasantries and come straight to the point. I have a very important 2 o’clock I’d rather not miss. No pun intended. Listen, my business is like prostitution. If you pay I’ll do whatever you want. I’m a sure thing. Just tell me what you want done and how badly you want it.”

The man seemed taken aback, but recovered quickly, “One target. No witnesses. Name your price.”

“Three million,”

“Done.”

“Transfer the files to my current phone. I’ll give you the number. Don’t worry about security, I have it covered. Now wasn’t that easy? Couldn’t we have just done this over the phone?”

“There’s one catch. We don’t want him neutralized right away. He has something of ours. We need it recovered first.”

“I don’t do recovery. Sorry. Deal’s off.”

“Ten million.”

“I do recovery. Deal’s on.”

“I trust you have all you need. I’ve transferred the files like you’ve asked. Anything else?”

“Nope. You can be on your way. But I’m still billing you for the entire half hour.”

“Yes, sir. Of course. One question, though.”

“Yes?”

“Your name’s pretty famous in the business these days. Why ‘The Silent Death’?”

“It’s exactly what the name implies. They’re dead before they can even make a sound. Which is convenient. All screaming does is attract attention. Makes cover up a bitch. Say, get me a refill?”

“Excuse me?”

“I had a vanilla latte, ask her to put some caramel sauce on top this time.”

The American looked affronted, but seemed to think better of confronting The Silent Death, who had not lived up to his international reputation at all—physically speaking. He was on the shorter side. Wearing a cable knit sweater. Didn’t appear to be particularly well built. Wasn’t carrying any weapons currently. Yet according to records this rather soft-looking man with sandy hair had put down more than a hundred highly secured targets in the past five years.

“I’ll order one for you. What name should I put it under? Mr. Smith?” the American asked.

“John Watson,” the man replied, “Another bagel too I should think, I might skip lunch,”

***

Once outside the man dialed his boss to inform him the deal was secured, “I’d like to speak to a Mr. Moriarty. Sir, he agreed. Ten million. Sherlock Holmes is a goner.”


	2. Chapter 2

The Silent Death started thinking of himself as ‘John’ in his mind. It helped mold him into the new cover identity. That way it would be easier to make it seem natural when he introduced himself to this ‘Sherlock’. That way whenever people used the name he wouldn’t take the extra half second to realize it was him.

Maybe he should take undercover jobs more often, he thought. After all, the creativity involved in creating the new identity was real good fun. John Hamish Watson. A good name. John was common enough. As was Watson. What could be the story with the middle name? Maybe he could hate it, that was nice and everyman-like, hating an obnoxious middle name. And John had decided that John Watson would be an everyman.

He had done his research on his new target. Sherlock Holmes. Private detective. In many ways his occupation reminded John of his own real occupation. Had he done more work in the London area he was sure Holmes would have been called in to investigate. He was also allegedly brilliant. That was a problem. A brilliant person could probably see through a façade pretty quickly. And his research told him Sherlock was beyond brilliant. So John Watson’s fake personality had to be pretty darn close to his real personality. That was fine.

His skill set could be explained away by military training. So he would be ex-military. He had recently done a few jobs in the Middle East. In Afghanistan. So recently returned from a tour in Afghanistan. On his last job in the Middle East he had been shot by a rival party. Perfect. That explained why he was honorably discharged and had returned to London? Career? Oh there were lots to choose from. But medicine would be the most convenient. The best doctors and the best assassins had a lot in common. The highest salaries and a top notch understanding of the human body. The only difference were the goals. A doctor was trying to make sure a person lived. And an assassin was trying to make sure they died. So he would have been a medical specialist in his army unit. Fine. That fit.

Hmmm. Family life? He would make this easier on himself. Distant from all his relations. Though he would take the phone from his last undercover job with him. Harry Kelsey had been an ‘alcoholic’ and one of the many smaller details about him had been the scuff marks John put on the phone, as he expected an alcoholics hands would shake while plugging in to charge. Sherlock liked to ‘deduce’. He would enjoy that. _Love Clara XXX._ He still felt bad about that. Making love to her in order to meet her deranged drug lord father, then shooting him. Oh well. There was no room for regret in this game. He would pretend Harry was his brother.

And that about finished the ‘pretend’ details about John. Everything else, he thought, he would take from his own personality. That way he minimized the chances of slipping up.

It took him a few more hours to create the false records and documents that brought John Watson to life. All the appropriate paperwork. Passport. Military ID. Driver’s license. Cane. For his ‘psychosomatic limp’. Sherlock was a genius. Geniuses loved a project.

Now, he smiled, he would put the wheels in motion, his client, Sebastian Moran, had not included a set timeline for his job anyway, so he would be careful, do it right, “Hey Jay, I need a favor, new job, you help me out and I’ll give you a cut. Good man. You’re going to be going by ‘Mike Stamford’, I’ve forwarded you the rest of the credentials you’ll need to get in, there’s a bloke up at St. Bart’s called Sherlock, bump into him a few times over the next week or so, I’ll need you to introduce me to him soon, I’ll be in touch, ”

He made a second phone call, “Emily, it’s been a long time. I have an undercover op I think you’ll be interested in. Yeah this time I’ll bump you up to 5%. You might have to be involved quite a bit. I need you to become ‘Molly Hooper’, you’ll love this one. I’ve sent you the files. Should show up on your mobile in a bit. Yeah, the Sherlock fellow. Flirt with him. Come on, he’s kind of a looker. I wouldn’t have called you if I didn’t think you had it in you, Em. Jay’s working this one too. Yeah he’s gotten fat since Afghanistan. Yeah, call me back when you can.”


	3. Chapter 3

Emily and Jay were the closest thing John had ever had to friends. There wasn’t really room for friendship in this business anyway, but they had been with him on three successful jobs so far, and John was reasonably sure they wouldn’t double cross him. Reasonably.

He had met Emily a few years back. When she was up-and-coming. She specialized in poisons, so he had made Hooper a chemist. He hoped she would appreciate the irony of having her work doing post-mortems. They had even dated once, briefly, though he swore never again. He had never quite been comfortable shagging the woman after he had seen her work in Kabul. So he had sworn after that point he would never mix sex and work. A good practice. No matter what line of work one was in.

Jay on the other hand was a former government agent. No current ties of course. John had checked. But his background made him like the feel of taking orders, having someone else be ultimately in charge. Which worked fine for John. The only annoying thing about working with him was the fact that freelance didn’t really suit after years of having access to government resources and backup. But as he made up for it in his knowledge of government intelligence workings and relative shooting skill John was willing to tolerate it.

They had established their covers rather well. Though Emily had sworn revenge on him for the kitten-loving, sweater-wearing, girl that was Molly Hooper. Sherlock, for his part, didn’t seem to have suspected a thing.

So when John went up to meet him he felt quite prepared. The balance of power clearly on his side. And it all went as planned.

“Afghanistan or Iraq?” Sherlock had asked, perfect, fell for it.

And the deduction to match. John had to admit he was impressed by this man. He would have made an excellent assassin if John had the chance to train him. A better one than John himself. Too bad he had to kill him. It was really too bad. No, John, no, he thought, no room for regret in this game.

And then the wink at the end, that was unexpected. John replayed the meeting in his mind a few times before he got it. Gay. Sherlock was gay. Undoubtedly. That was interesting. He himself was bisexual. He could easily make John the same. Yes. That would speed things up. He could recover the object. Then finish it before the month was up.

John didn’t care _too_ much for the flat. Not really his style. But he was responding to his name well enough, which was good. Sherlock didn’t seem to think anything was up.

But then the case happened. And John wasn’t expecting that. But he went along. And he hated to say it. But he was impressed again. Really impressed.

“Fantastic,” he had said it without meaning to when Sherlock deduced him yet again.

Sherlock had even noticed the scuff marks. No one noted the scuff marks. It was strangely gratifying.

He had almost forget his secondary plot, trying to get Sherlock into bed, but had quickly recovered.

“Harry’s short for Harriet,” he had said, it was a good touch, putting a lesbian relationship in there, see how Sherlock reacted to it, check his hypothesis that the guy was gay.  

The stake-out at Angelo’s. John had just been itching to help him out more. Tell him all the things that he was observing. But he couldn’t. It would give it away.

So he focused on the secondary plot again, and had tried to flirt. That was good and bad. Good because the responses once again confirmed the gay theory. Bad because the ‘married to my work’ line doomed the sex = trust = object = kill the guy = leave sequence.

All in all though the day hadn’t been wasted. He had moved in with Sherlock within a day of knowing him. Though the Mycroft character had been a bit of a surprise, and was probably the only person with a chance in hell of finding him out. And if this was going to be a long op, which Mr. ‘Married to my work’ had now ensured it would be, at least he was enjoying himself. John loved adrenaline. The chase. The kill. And working on this end. Catching the criminal instead of being him was nearly as good a thrill.

For perhaps the hundredth time that day John found himself thinking what waste it was. Killing this man. He was so brilliant. Such useful talents. What a waste. Such a waste damn it. No, John, no, he thought. There was no room for regret in this game. 


	4. Chapter 4

John hadn’t meant to shoot the cabbie. Later on he rationalized it through the fact that with Sherlock already dead he wouldn’t be able to recover the object. But deep down even he acknowledged, that even after the brief span of time knowing the detective, John actually _liked_ him. That kill hadn’t been strategy. It had been instinct. This was a dangerous thing. He had after all, risked revealing himself. Yet the military training cover had proved adequate. The cover in general was proving more than accurate.

The Silent Death, despite himself, liked being John. And that fact grew more apparent every day. He told himself he was focusing all his energies on getting closer to Sherlock. But it seemed to be happening all on its own.

By the time he and Sherlock had returned from Baskerville it had come to the point where John was actually dreading it. Dreading the final kill. He would do it of course. He had never backed out from a job. It was a matter of pride. But it felt wrong. It had felt wrong from the beginning but it felt even worse now. It was that look in Sherlock’s eyes for him. Trust. Trust Sherlock seldom gave to anyone, John had noticed, and he had chosen to give it to John, the man who would take his life.

John swore to himself he would not get any closer. He really did. But one day when they had just finished a session of crap telly, with no ongoing case, and the strangest feeling of contentment—something a hitman rarely has, Sherlock had kissed him, and it had all gone downhill from there.

John discovered a lot of things that night. That Sherlock really had been a virgin. Exactly how he liked to be penetrated. Every intonation of the sounds only John had ever gotten from him. The way Sherlock’s naked, alabaster skin glinted in the moonlight. How it felt, hot and sweaty under John’s hands. The way he had looked at John. That trust. That same trust taken to the power of infinity. John had discovered a lot of things. Including how much he hated himself, the real himself, the Silent Death. He had said it a thousand times. There was no room for regret in this game. But waking up in the morning with Sherlock’s head nestled on his bare chest, and the knowledge of what his eventual betrayal would do to this man, who had taken so long, so long to learn how to care, he felt oceans of regret.

So he set a date. He knew he was close enough to Sherlock, having probed him body and mind, to request the final information from his client. Recover the object. Kill Sherlock. And be done with it. In one week both Sherlock Holmes and John Watson would be no more. The Silent Death would swallow them both.


	5. Chapter 5

“Why are you pointing that at me, Sherlock?” John asks one day when he comes home, staring at the gun, oh god, oh god, Sherlock knows.

“You were going to kill me, but not if I kill you first” Sherlock’s voice is so icily cold and his eyes have lost that look, that look of trust, completely, “You were going to kill me John, but that’s not your name,”

“You’re right,” John admits, but years of training have prepared him for this.

He wrestles Sherlock to the ground and takes the gun from him, within seconds he’s pointed it at his head.

“Just do it John,” Sherlock says, and the ice of his voice barely masks the hurt, “Shoot me in the head,”

“No,” John throws the gun away from them both.

“Of course, you need the object from me,” Sherlock reasons, “Ah yes,”

John says nothing.

“You’re a trained killer. Best killer in the world actually. I don’t know why I didn’t just shoot you right when you came in. Actually I do know, sentiment. Weakness found on the losing side. I thought Irene was the final proof. But no. This is the final, final proof. Because I am going to die. My loyal blogger is going to shoot me in the head,” Sherlock says scathingly.

“It isn’t personal,” John tries to explain, but knows he’s said the wrong thing.

“Not personal, okay, so you come in, become the only friend I’ve ever had, take my virginity and then my life, but it’s not personal, the logic of that is great,” Sherlock says.

“I didn’t mean for that part to happen,”

“I know, that was me, that was me falling in love with you, the psychopathic killer who’s been plotting my death for the past year, after all this time, you are the genius after all, and I am ordinary,” Sherlock sighs, “I hate you so completely yet I still admire the fact that you were able to deceive me.”

“It wasn’t hard,” John admits, “Your weakness was a desire to be appreciated, you’d never been loved. Everyone has a weakness. You just find it out. Exploit it. Kill. That’s the game.”

“I’m just glad it meant nothing to you, it makes this all the more humiliating,”

“It did mean something,”

“Now you’re just lying,”

“No, this is the hardest shot I’ve ever had to take Sherlock,”

“Why? Why is it hard? Was it nice having me? The alleged genius? Was it nice violating me when you knew what you had to do?”

“That was completely consensual,”

“With John, not _The Silent Death_ , which by the way, pretty useless moniker after today, I’m going to scream quite loudly when it happens,”

“You’re not screaming or crying right now,”

“I’m very good at repressing my emotions, but if I was physically capable of doing so I would have strangled you by now,”

“I do care for you,” John picks up the gun again.

“Why are you telling me this before you do it?”

“I hate having to do this, because I really thought we could have a life together, if I didn’t have to do this of course, you’re brilliant, you really are, every time I said that I meant it,”

“Shut up, shut up, the Silent Death never misses a kill, just do it,”

“I love you, Sherlock,” John pulls the trigger and shoots.  


End file.
